


A Discerning Eye

by formalizing



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek Hale, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, References to Knotting, Sharing Clothes, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27679724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/formalizing/pseuds/formalizing
Summary: I’ve never evenheardthe word ‘greige’ before now—I wouldn’t have suggested it if it wasn’t right in front of me.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	A Discerning Eye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rei_c](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/gifts).



> Loosely inspired by an actual trip to buy paint.
> 
> I'm aware of the Sheriff's actual name, but I came up in this fandom solely on the fic, and John's the one that stuck. I'm not even sorry.
> 
> Originally posted [on Tumblr](https://all-these-formalities.tumblr.com/post/631753518560215040)

John’s always loved Sunday mornings.

Sundays mean he’s got his butt planted firmly in his seat at the head of the table, coffee in one hand and the morning paper—the actual _paper_ kind, not the digital replacements Stiles has tried to get him to trade in for—in the other. Sundays also mean lounging around in his old BHPD sweats later than is maybe socially acceptable because he doesn’t have to go in to work (usually) and it's nice to just be comfy every now and again.

Most importantly, Sundays mean breakfast—something beyond coffee and the occasional, illicit fast food breakfast burrito when Stiles is too far away at college to catch him in the act. Sunday breakfast is a holdover tradition from when it used to be Claudia at the stove. She’d be wearing the threadbare, navy robe of John’s that’s still hanging untouched on its hook in the bathroom because it always looked better on her, whipping up pancakes by the stack and bacon that’s just the right amount of crispy, bordering on burnt.

Even if there’s none of the fun stuff in the breakfast Stiles is cooking up—scrambled egg whites with spinach, turkey bacon that will never get to that perfect level of crispiness, and the multigrain toast that John rolls his eyes at the way he does with all the low-fat, heart-healthy, balanced diet crap that finds its way into his kitchen—it’s still one of the best parts of his week.

He lets the familiar stream of chatter drift right over his head as he skims through his paper. The chatter is rarely ever meant for him anymore anyway; it’s meant for the guy whose too-big grey Henley Stiles is wearing over a pair of old Superman pyjama bottoms. The guy who definitely left the tell-tale, mottled bruising of a hickey John is pretending not to notice in the juncture of his son’s neck and shoulder, exposed by the overly wide neckline of that top.

It will never not be entirely surreal to see Derek Hale sitting across the breakfast table. Even more so when he’s nursing a cup of coffee in the ‘werewolves not swearwolves’ mug that Stiles gave him at Christmas, glowering balefully down at the frankly ridiculous number of paint samples spread out in front of him.

“Why did you even make it an option if you were just going to veto it? I’ve never even _heard_ the word ‘greige’ before now—I wouldn’t have suggested it if it wasn’t right in front of me.”

“Blame the Home Depot lady. Apparently it’s ‘warm and modern’—”

“Neither of which describe us.”

“—and a ‘perfect neutral for the _boudoir_.’”

“Don’t call it that.”

“Look, she was talking about finishes and durability and she had a handful of those wooden paint stir stick things,” Stiles explains, using the spatula in his hand to (very helpfully) demonstrate the stirring action. “I was overwhelmed. I’m claiming a case of orange apron syndrome.”  
  
Stiles pauses, spatula still hovering in the air as he tilts his head in thought.  
  
“There might actually be a paint color called that. There’s a whole wall of colors with names that aren’t colors. One was called ‘Tornado Season’, Derek; it was green.”

“Green’s fine,” Derek insists, shuffling through the samples before him again. “Where’s that one? Let’s go with that one.”

“Veto. I’m not painting the walls of our _bedroom_ a color named after a natural disaster.”

“ _You’re_ a natural disaster,” Derek mutters, not quite under his breath.

“Yeah—a _hurricane_. In that I can rock you like one, baby.”

Stiles turns back to the kitchen with a quick wink and double finger guns at that, and the sigh Derek heaves is the most put-upon John has ever heard anyone sound with a look that fond on their face.

“Want a second set of eyes on those, son?”

Derek’s gaze snaps over to him, wide-eyed and vaguely fearful with that deer-in-the-headlights look he gets anytime John calls him that. It’s even funnier now that John’s seen him in his wolf form with the remnants of an _actual deer_ on his muzzle.

John eventually has to raise his eyebrows and hold his hand out as a reminder that he’d asked something.

“Oh, yeah, uh…” Derek clears his throat as he gathers up the ones in front of him. “Actually that’d be great, if you don’t mind, Sheriff.”

John cringes as he accepts the handful of paint samples Derek passes over.

“It’s Sunday, Derek. Please don’t call me Sheriff in my own kitchen on a Sunday.”

Derek looks confused for a second, like he thinks John’s actually offended.

“Sorry, Mr. Sti—” John raises an eyebrow. “Right. Thanks… John.”

“Atta boy.”

John flips through the samples, discarding some to the floor with barely a glance. He’s pretty sure most of these are ones the paint saleswoman handed Stiles and he took without question—bland neutrals, varying shades of beige or tan. A few he’s 100% certain Stiles grabbed off the shelf just for their names, because there’s no way he actually thought they’d paint their bedroom ‘Hooker’s Green’ or ‘Flirtation’ or...

“‘Lover’s Knot’?” John squints his eyes as he turns the card from side to side. It’s a bright, retina-burning red. “Well, that’s just painful.”

From the kitchen, John’s pretty sure he hears Stiles say something along the lines of, “I mean, maybe the first couple times.” But Derek promptly chokes on his coffee, coughing and sputtering, drowning him out.

“ _Veto_ ,” Derek croaks when he’s able to breathe again, red-faced in a way that could be from the choking or could be a blush, and Stiles just laughs as he walks in holding a plate in each hand.

“C’mon, Derek, what’s wrong with ‘Lover’s Knot’?” he says as he settles a plate in front of each of them, the hint of a smirk pulling at his lips.

Derek’s eyes flash that unearthly red color that John still finds unsettling—a warning Stiles pays absolutely no heed to as he runs his fingers through Derek’s hair like one might pet a dog.

“Aww, y’see? It brings out the color of your eyes.”

John glances at the card one more time, thinks about what (admittedly little) he knows of wolves and Alphas and… decides he’s not thinking about it any further as he drops it firmly in the ‘no’ pile.

Derek’s resumed his default state of ‘mild to moderate annoyance’, glaring down at the bacon on his plate—which, John can’t help but notice, there is more of than John has on his own plate, presumably due to… werewolf reasons and not just blatant favoritism—as Stiles ducks back into the kitchen to grab his own plate, and John returns his attention to the remaining paint samples.

The one that finally catches his eye is nearly at the bottom of the tiny stack that hasn't already been tossed aside.

“What about this one?”

Stiles sets his own plate down as John passes it over, goes around to look over Derek’s shoulder at it.

The description on the back of the color card calls it a ‘moody, mid-range ocean hue’. It’s somewhere between the cheerful look of a ‘bathroom’ blue and the inkiness of navy; bright enough to draw the eye, with just enough darkness from the leaden, grey undertones to keep it grounded.

Maybe that’s why it’s called…

“‘Anchored’. Huh.” There’s a beat of silence before Derek continues, “Did you—?”

“Nope,” Stiles says, hands held up in the universal gesture for ‘not guilty’ that he’s so familiar with. “Must be one the paint lady threw in the bag—pretty sure I’d remember that one.”

He tugs it free of Derek’s grip by one of the corners, looks at it for a moment or two with a small smile.

“‘Anchored’,” he murmurs, one of his hands resting between Derek’s shoulder blades. He glances down at him, smile widening the way it always does when he looks at Derek. He gives a little tilt of his head and raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

Derek’s smiling back the way he doesn’t even seem to realize he always does for Stiles as he says, “Yeah.”

John can almost picture them at their own table, in the Hale house Derek’s been overseeing the extensive rebuild on, the kitchen they’ve already picked the colors and the tiles for. Something in his heart clenches at the realization that someday soon, his kitchen will be empty on Sundays. But the thought of Stiles building a home with someone who keeps up with his chatter, probably thinks that shirt looks better on Stiles than it does on him, manages a smile that soft for him when life’s given him nothing but rough edges to work with—well, it makes it sting a little less.

“Good pick, Pops,” Stiles says, leaning down to kiss Derek on the cheek—a distraction so he can steal the wolf mug from in front of him, since he left his own cup in the kitchen. He drinks down the last mouthful then offers the cup back with just a hopeful grin in answer to Derek’s growl.

John nods, takes a bite out of a strip of turkey bacon that is somehow actually just about the right amount of crispy as he watches Derek roll his eyes and collect his (now empty) cup, heading into the kitchen to make another pot of coffee.

 _Yeah_ , he thinks. _You too._


End file.
